Moebius
by 1shot
Summary: He leaves his keys on the kitchen counter when he goes. Vignette, post-movie (beware of spoilers). Rating for language, mild sexual imagery.


**MOEBIUS (or, HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE NAVY)**

**-*~ (come back to me)**

"You can't stay at your dad's for six months," Logan says, reasonably. Too reasonably, really-it is not in either of them to be measured-so Veronica counters, "I don't know, it's a pretty comfy couch," and she watches his eyes crinkle at the corners when he frowns. He didn't used to have those lines there, carved like all that brooding was a knife leaving scars.

She shrugs. "Your girlfriend's a little white trash for this place, don't you think?"

"My college girlfriend, maybe. Now I got me a hot shot city girl."

"Keep fooling yourself, Harvard. I'm gonna steal the silverware and run."

He leaves his keys on the kitchen counter when he goes.

She stands there in the empty beach house, fingering the smooth metal of the keychain and staring at the rumpled sheets still waiting across the room. There's sunlight streaming through the windows and she can hear the distant frothy pound of the ocean.

She makes the bed, locks the door, and takes the car. The steering wheel is warm wrapped leather and she imagines she can feel the imprints of his hands.

**-*~ (always)**

Veronica waits for Logan on the pier and he's still all gangly length and big hands, half a foot too tall for her. She gets a crick in her neck but she's pretty sure she can tie his tongue in a knot like she used to do with cherry stems. She's saved a decade of party tricks for him.

"I like that uniform," she says. "Take it off."

Two hours later the sheets in the beach house are all tangled up again and she's marveling at the way he feels like a whole person in her hands, and not some jagged pile of glass shaped like a boy. "The navy's good for you." She'd forgotten how easily he can smile.

"I can't believe you seriously didn't stay here."

"I don't trust it. I'm worried I'd wake up with Dick."

"Well, technically-"

"You've got three weeks, Echolls. You want to waste them talking?"

**-*~ (come back to me)**

He leaves the keys on the counter. She locks the door and takes the car, drives to the office and slumps up the stairs so she can drop into the chair across from Mac's desk.

"Deployed again, huh?" Mac could be more sympathetic, maybe. She's trying, but her fingers are still busy on the keyboard, half her attention on her little wall of monitors and what looks like a thousand lines of code.

"I am married to the sea."

"Yeah. It's a perfect solution."

"Excuse me?"

"It's what you do. Break up. Make up. Break up. Make up." Mac's keyboard goes click-click-click. She's got a streak of purple in her hair today. She's watching the computer but the corner of her mouth is quirked. "Now at least you can schedule it in."

Veronica sets a boot against the desk and spins her chair in a circle once, thinking. "You're fired," she concludes.

"Uh-huh. Those photos you wanted are in the red folder. I have seen things I can't unsee. Also, your dad wants to know if you want Chinese tonight."

"I'm busy. Being married to the sea."

She'll go, though. Her room is waiting.

**-*~ (always)**

"Uncle Sam," she declares, "wants _you._"

"That hat is not a toy." He's sprawled lazily across the pillows. He's more sinewed than he used to be. She used to think of him as a feral dog; now time and basic training have made him greyhound lean. His eyes are half-lidded but all of his attention is hers.

"No?" She rolls the brim in her hands, then sets his hat jauntily on her head, letting her hair spill out and under. Logan's hand is on her thigh. She's different too, she thinks. She has weight and curves. She wonders if they're adults now, like all it takes is years and shifting flesh. "You don't like?"

"I'm not complaining," is the studied verdict. His tone is appropriately appreciative. "What happens in Vegas. But I need it back in approximately five minutes."

"Don't go." She practises a salute, sets her fingertips sharply against the hat's brim, like she's not serious.

"I have to."

"You forget I've seen your taxes."

"I have to," he says again, sober and abruptly pensive. Suddenly the air's gone tight and electric, like maybe she's wrong and nothing's changed. Like maybe she's sixteen.

"Why?" She doesn't want to know. She asks anyway. Story of her life.

He's careful. His palm has gone flat against her leg, his finger tracing over her skin. "For me. It's the only part of my life where I don't need you."

Not sixteen. She was mistaken. It stings like she's eighteen and they're on the college steps. "Well, fuck you too, buddy."

"Look, fair's fair, Veronica. You won't even stay here when I'm gone." He can still look like a kicked puppy, she discovers. She can still want to punch him for it.

**-*~ (come back to me)**

He doesn't leave his keys. She takes her copies from her bag, because of course she has copies-she is who she is-and she swipes the car anyway. She drives too fast to her dad's. Her father is making a sandwich in the kitchen.

"I'm done," she grits, sweeping in. She lets the door slam behind her. "We're through."

"Sure, honey. What's he gone for this time?"

"Two months. It doesn't matter." Her voice is more raw than she might like.

"Okay." Keith smears mustard on ham, then slides the sandwich over in her direction before setting two more slices of bread on a plate and starting again.

"You don't even believe me."

"You are my fully grown daughter, perfectly capable of making your own decisions. Was that his BMW you pulled up in?"

She crams a crust into her mouth and doesn't answer. When she swallows, she says only, "You still going to stake out Frank Bellamy tonight?"

"Yup. Could use a hand if you're up for it. Fifty-fifty he ends up at the strip club or the ballet."

"I like to think that sentence has never been uttered before in the history of humankind."

"I'm an innovator. Your room's made up, by the way- stay as long as you'd like."

"Fucking _Logan,_" she says, but her dad's pointedly busy eating, because that trick apparently works two ways now. He shoves dijon and rye into his face. She sighs.

**-*~ (always)**

"I'm sorry," Logan whispers against her neck. His breath is hot under her ear and he can't stop running his hands over her ribs; he can't pull her close enough. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Her nails dig into him like she's trying to crawl into his skin. She's not convinced she isn't. "We can't. We can't keep doing this."

He laughs against her collarbone. Doesn't let go. "Come on, Veronica. It's what we are." He smells like bourbon and salt water. "What's this?"

"Bruise. Stop it." Her breath hisses despite herself; she feels him go tense. His hand is a hard fist against her spine. "Down, boy," she adds. "Already over. And FYI, the ballet is a lot more violent than most people think."

"I wish you wouldn't-"

"It's the only part of my life where I don't need you."

She nips at his lip before he can answer. She's not gentle. There's nothing he can say.

**-*~ (come back to me)**

He leaves his keys on the kitchen counter.

She makes herself a cup of coffee and wanders back to the living room. Just for a few minutes, she thinks. Maybe just for an hour. She leans a shoulder against the wall and stands, staring out the window at the waves.


End file.
